


Youth

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, hate sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maeglin wakes up to Tuor, learns nothing, and does it all over again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Was listening to [Hatefuck by Cruel Youth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aW6xG6YpIok). Warning that this is my interpretation of them from the Silmarillion and that I haven’t read HoME.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The morning is bright, as it always seems to be after _those nights_ : as if Arien herself dares to mock him. No clouds mar her glory on the evenings of his shame. His eyes open to the dazzling light, spilling in around the pillars off the balcony, blazing through the sheer curtains, dancing along the white sheets and the golden strands of Tuor’s hair. Even in his sleep, he seems to smile. His face is always fair. 

Even Maeglin’s foul mood can’t change that. Try as Maeglin might, he can’t ignore the beauty in his lover’s sleeping form. He cringes every time he catches himself so much as thinking that word. They aren’t _lovers_. And he shouldn’t be here, and he knows it.

He lingers anyway, because he’s grown too fond of the thick stench of mortal sweat. He knows both the strength and gentleness of Tuor’s arms, and his eyes trace the relaxed lines of them beneath the blanket. He eyes the supple curve of Tuor’s lips and thinks of how easy it would be to snuggle closer like some lovesick child in a storybook and to sleep the rest of the morning away.

He always spends these mornings like this. Wanting something _more_ that he won’t take. But then Tuor snorts and twitches against his pillow, and it jolts Maeglin back to life. He rises, the blankets falling down his naked chest, and turns to go.

Tuor wakes quick as lightening and snaps forward. He catches Maeglin’s wrist before Maeglin can go anywhere, and Maeglin turns back with annoyance, even though he thinks he could wrench away if he tried. Tuor’s muscles are impressive, but he’s still only _mortal_. 

He rubs his tired eyes with his free hand and asks around a yawn, “Where are you going?”

“To bathe,” Maeglin easily returns, tacking on: “in my own quarters, before anyone can suspect I was ever elsewhere.”

Tuor gives a laugh that’s far too good-natured for them and snorts, “Are you that terrified of anyone suspecting that you actually might _like_ me?”

Now Maeglin does rip his hand away. Tuor relents easily and stretches languidly across the mattress, which is even more infuriating: he shouldn’t have that much _power_ over Maeglin when he’s so unguarded. The worst part is that he knows it. 

Maeglin answers tightly, “I do not. This was a mistake.” He means it to sting.

But Tuor just sighs, “You say that every time.” Then he rolls more onto his back, kicking the blankets straight where Maeglin’s movements disrupted them, and he adds with that all-together-aggravating grin of his, “And yet, here we are.”

Here Maeglin is. In a bed not his own, and not even the one he strives for. Or used to strive for. Sometimes he doesn’t know anymore where he longs to lie. He just glares down at Tuor, unsure if what he truly wants is to punch Tuor square in the jaw, or to kiss him.

Tuor jerks forward suddenly, and this time, he grabs more than Maeglin’s wrist—he encircles Maeglin’s waist and throws him to the mattress, and Maeglin tries to defend himself, but it’s too late—he’s gotten tangled in the blanket, and Tuor throws him in a full circle, dragging him down over the mattress and rolling him clear to the other side, until he’s lying flat on his back with a little ‘oomph’ and his head on the pillow, Tuor in the air above him. On all fours and gloriously naked, still glistening from their throes in the middle of the night, Tuor knees and pushes the blanket back from between them. Maeglin’s no better off. He’d _meant_ to collect his breeches and find where his tunic got off to and sneak away right after that first fuck against the wall. 

...But then Tuor had dragged him to the bed by his hair, and they’d resumed, hard but slow and as long as Maeglin could take, until there was no energy left to do anything but lie in a hot mess on top of one another. Maeglin’s braid had come loose. It’s still in a mess down his shoulders. The ribbon he used to tie it must be tangled up in Tuor’s sheets somewhere—evidence he doesn’t want to leave behind—he’ll have to find it and take it with him when he leaves.

Tuor looks down at him now, brushes a few dark strands away from his burning eyes, and chuckles, “What a brat you are, my beauty.”

Maeglin lets himself bristle and fights not to preen. He’s far better looking than even this handsome warrior, he knows, and he’s glad that Tuor knows it. But ‘brat’ makes him sound a _child_ when he’ll see centuries over this one Man, and he belongs to no one. 

Still, he opens when Tuor bends down to kiss him. He takes Tuor’s ready tongue into his mouth and closes again to suck it, his hands already rising to slide along Tuor’s broad shoulders. They have nothing in common but _this_. Maeglin tells himself it cannot, should not work, even as he spreads his legs around Tuor’s waist and runs five fingers down to squeeze Tuor’s taut rear. 

Tuor bucks into him, grunts into his mouth, and pulls back to ask, “Are you still fucked-open wide enough to take me?”

Maeglin just scowls. Tuor’s voice is husky, deep, but his smile is light, amused. He brings one calloused hand to his mouth and thrusts his own fingers in, and Maeglin watches in sick indulgence while Tuor gathers his spit. Then he dips that hand between them, runs straight past Maeglin’s throbbing cock and down between his legs, curving in to probe for his hole. Maeglin grunts when Tuor finds it. He mutters, “You are so crude.” 

But Tuor just grins and presses those thick fingers into Maeglin’s hole, deciding, “You’re still loose enough.” He gives Maeglin’s cheek a kiss like a reward for a job well done. He doesn’t understand Elven bodies. But their last round wasn’t long ago—they didn’t get much sleep. And Maeglin can still _feel it_. He closes his eyes when Tuor tries to look into them. He threads his fingers into Tuor’s long hair and tenses, even though he’s supposed to do the opposite, while Tuor repositions. The spongy head of Tuor’s cock rubbing against his puckered hole never feels as strange as it should. Maeglin’s already hard, but he stiffens more for that. Anticipation. Tuor nips affectionately at his jaw and groans, “You feel damn good in the morning.”

It’s always good. Tuor pushes in with one grand thrust, and Maeglin cries out despite himself, his body curling tighter around Tuor’s. He digs his nails deep into Tuor’s sun-kissed skin and shoves his knees against Tuor’s sides, and he _loves_ that first burn, the way Tuor goes in anyway. Uninterrupted, Tuor slides deeper, refusing to relent, and Maeglin takes it too vocally and savours the heady rush of mingled pleasure/pain.

Then Tuor gets balls-deep and gives one last stab, making sure. Maeglin winces and sucks in breath. Tuor readjusts atop him, heavy, sweaty, and uses one elbow to prop up and the other to grab Maeglin’s cock. Maeglin always wants to snarl when that happens. Push Tuor’s hand away. He doesn’t touch Tuor’s cock when he’s on top. But they’re different, and Tuor squeezes him and starts to pump, forcing Maeglin to choke with pleasure.

Maeglin fucks gracefully, all in fluid movements, hips in a dance, but Tuor fucks like he fights and pulls out to stab in, out again for the same thing. Maybe it’s just because he knows Maeglin can take it. But he fucks Maeglin _hard_ without reprieve, right from the beginning, and quickly has the wooden headboard clattering loudly against the wall. The bedsprings whine in protest, and Maeglin cries out on almost every thrust—he wants to be subtle, quiet, but Tuor laughs at him because he’s _loud_ , and Maeglin knows he is. Can’t help it. Tuor fucks too mercilessly and plays with his cock too generously. It’s hard to decide whether the bulk off the pleasure is from Tuor’s large hand twisting around his shaft or from Tuor’s enormous cock battering into that perfect spot inside him. In these moments, it’s _everything_ he wants.

Tuor ruins it by nuzzling into his face and smiling. Maeglin _hates_ that stupid smile. But he—

Won’t even go there. _There is no love,_ he tells himself, again and again, amidst the drowning waves of dizziness and rapture. Tuor dissolves into an animal and starts to mouth at him, nipping at his jaw and sucking red marks into his neck. He’ll have to wear high collars for days. He’ll tie his hair into an immaculate braid again and try not to think about Tuor’s dirty fingers ravaging through it and holding him down by it and fucking him against the floor. Maeglin can feel the end coming and wants to growl _I hate you_ , but his throat’s too busy moaning and shrieking to form any real words. 

He comes first. He always comes first. It’s humiliating but overwhelming, and he bursts in a haze of self-pity and lust all over Tuor’s chiseled stomach. Tuor pumps him right through it and fucks him all the harder. Maeglin turns away to avoid Tuor’s mouth, needing to pant for air, to deal with all the left over spasms in his body that being so wound up has left him with. Without the veil of pleasure over him, his skin feels like it’s on fire. Tuor’s body is too _hot_ , too heavy, smells too strong, he’s trapped—

Tuor comes with a languid moan and bursts inside him. Maeglin can feel every drop of it welling up. His whole body’s gone numb except for that one part: the channel that houses Tuor’s cock. Tuor pounds it in a few more times.

Then Tuor finally tires himself out and stops, pulling slowly out and dragging his seed with it. Maeglin instantly feels _too empty_ after, messy and gaping open. Leaking. Tuor falls down beside him, abusing the mattress one last time, and catches his eye. 

Maeglin’s head screams to go. Tuor is too high, too well-regarded; he has servants that will come soon. Maeglin’s servants won’t be fool enough to question his absence, but Tuor’s probably _friends_ with his. Maeglin still has to find his ribbon and his tunic. 

Tuor lifts a hand to cup Maeglin’s cheek. They’re both still breathing hard, but their skin’s cooling in the pleasant morning breeze. Tuor gently strokes Maeglin’s face like they’re _lovers_ when they’re not. 

Tuor murmurs, “Stay.”

Maeglin’s chest pangs. 

Tuor tries, “You will be this beautiful forever, but I will not. You should stay and enjoy it while you can.”

Maeglin snaps, “I cannot _wait_ until you are old and ugly and entirely resistible.” But he’s now too satiated to put the usual malice in, and he knows that he’s slipped by implying that Tuor is _irresistible_ now.

Tuor kindly doesn’t point out the mistake. He tosses one leg over Maeglin’s thigh instead, then bends to collect the mess of the blanket they kicked away. He tugs it back over them, covering most of their naked bodies, and cuddles up to pillow his head next to Maeglin’s, too tall to properly snuggle onto Maeglin’s shoulder like he tries to. Maeglin stares at him while he shuts his eyes again. 

He drifts back to sleep too soon. No shields. He looks as peaceful as ever.

This once, Maeglin stays.


End file.
